


The Blogger with No Name

by calaverita



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Background Relationships, Banter, Blogger McCree, Chubby Jesse McCree, Friendly Exes, Gen, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Jesse McCree & Genji Shimada Are Best Friends, Jesse McCree Speaks Spanish, Joel Morricone, Latino Jesse McCree, New Mexico, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overwatch Family, Past Relationship(s), Post-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Recall, Reminiscing, Trans Genji Shimada, Trans Jesse McCree, World Travel, blackwatch bros, you can pry my latinx mccree headcanons from my gay little chicano hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 05:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14418600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calaverita/pseuds/calaverita
Summary: inspired by krizzia (@greatsenpai)'s idea that post fall of overwatch, pre-recall McCree is on the run (as a blogger) and occasionally checks in with Genji in between his misadventures!!!!!





	The Blogger with No Name

Jesse McCree barely remembered how he had escaped from the explosion in Norway. No, that was a lie. He told himself that he had no recollection but he could easily place every detail, the memory burned into his brain like the tattoo that once bore into his left arm. The groaning of rebar that slagged with the fire, the–

“Sir?”

“Ghhgh…. Hmm?”

“Sir, you need to order something or I must ask you to leave.” He mentally berated himself for getting sloppy, dozing off in a diner at–he checked his watch–four in the morning. Letting himself slip up like this again could cost him his life. At least he had bothered to wear something other than his signature red serape, donning an olive-green bomber jacket over a grey sweatshirt. Of course, he could not compromise on the hat. He reminded himself to find a place to get it cleaned again soon.

“I'll get a coffee ‘n the _huevos rancheros con carne adovada_.”

“Red or green?”

“Christmas.” He flashed a smile at the server as they mentally logged his order and left.

“Oh, uh, Mx?”

“Yes?” They turned back around. He didn't see them when he arrived the evening before; they must have started their shift after he fell asleep.

“You got a bathroom I could use? Just need to freshen up a little.”

“Around the counter and to the left.”

“Much obliged.” McCree tipped his hat to them and pulled his dopp kit out of his satchel before making his way to the restroom. He would rather clean up in the diner than at a rest stop this early in the morning–he knew he could handle whatever a stranger might throw at him, but he preferred keeping a low profile. The bathroom looked nearly spotless save for some wear on the mirror and stalls. That eased his anxiety about his upcoming meal; a clean bathroom usually meant a clean kitchen, too. He knew from experience–very brief experience–that the former was easier to maintain.

After setting his hat aside, McCree held his hands under the faucet to splash himself awake with lukewarm water. His hair had curled with the slightest hint of oiliness under the fluorescent lights; he reminded himself to ask about nearby rest stops with showers when he paid his check later. He exited the bathroom after washing up and heard a loud metal clang.

“Hand everything over! Your credit chips, too!” A voice shouted.

“Okay, okay,” the server from before said with an air of panic in their voice.

“Dammit,” McCree breathed, crouching at the corner of the bar.

“You!” The robber gestured towards him with her gun, wrist firm and precise. “Hand over your credit chips.”

“Don't have any.” He held both hands up and stood up slowly from his position behind one of the barstools. His breakfast must have arrived while he was in the bathroom. Visible heat lines rose from the food on the oval-shaped plate.

“What?!” She shouted incredulously. “What kind of–ugh, never mind, just gimme your wallet.”

“I will once I finish my breakfast. Jus’ be patient.”

“Oh, no way are you getting into that little booth of yours.”

“I’m hungry. ‘Sides, that’s where my wallet is if ya want it.”

“I’ll get your wallet for you, where is it?”

“In the satchel,” he feigned a sigh while she grabbed the bag with her free hand, icy gaze locked on him.

“No funny business, cowboy.” She pulled out a thick leather billfold after rifling through the bag and shook the contents of it down. Out slid a few bobby pins, a ticket to Meow Wolf, a Starbucks Gold card, a photo of Gabriel Reyes smashing McCree’s face into a cake on his first birthday at Overwatch, a photo of him, Genji, and Reyes posing next to a road sign that says “Shoulder Work Ahead,” a few packaged lactase pills, a sandwich card with eight out of ten stamps on it, several fake IDs with each name more ridiculous than the last, a condom one day away from its expiration date, change from at least six different countries, and a hair tie. “Are you kidding me?” She scoffed and looked up at him from the pile, pointing her gun at him again. “Where’s your cash?”

“You wanted my wallet,” McCree shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, having swiped the mug from the table.

“Cash. Now. Quit fucking around. And put that down!” The robber now held the gun point-blank against his chest.

“Right, right, easy.” McCree set the mug down while he started to reach into his pocket, but stopped and pivoted his body out of the line of fire. He pushed her gun out of the way with his left hand and brought his right back up to twist the gun towards her, breaking her thumb in the process. The pain provided enough of a distraction for him to grab the pistol from her fingers and step back. During the commotion, the server had ducked down behind the grill with their coworkers. “Told you not to get in the way of my breakfast, ma’am. Sorry ‘bout the thumb. Take a load off, why don’t ya?” He gestured to the booth behind her.

“You fucker, I swear to God–” she began as she slid onto the cushy bench.

“Police will be here soon,” the line cook announced from the window between the counter and kitchen.

“Aw, hell,” the _vaquero_ muttered, pistol still in hand with his eyes trained on the robber. “What’s the ETA?”

“The station’s a ten-minute walk from here. So, four minutes, maybe?”

“ _Híjole_. Alright.” McCree prayed to himself that they’d take their sweet time. People tended to look at him and assume he was a drifter, or perhaps an outlaw of some kind. The average civilian never approached him at close enough a distance to ask. But the police–that was a whole different story. With a whistle, he called the server over. “Know how to handle a gun?” They shook their head and he gave them a quick rundown as he carefully transferred the gun to them. The robber looked down at the plate in front of her, perhaps contemplating the pros and cons of spitting into the vigilante’s meal. “I’ll be takin’ that, thank you very much.” McCree brought the plate towards himself and picked it up. “Sorry for the mess, folks,” he announced as he turned around to address the staff behind the counter. “Could I get a to-go cup and a box? I better head out.”

“Certainly,” said one of the staff members behind the counter. “Want some dessert to go with it? It's on us.”

McCree eyed the rotating dessert case on the counter and doffed his hat. “Well, if you're offerin’,” he replied while shuffling through the money stashed under his hat, putting down the cash for his breakfast, “I'll take a slice a’ pecan to-go. Hold the whipped, please. Oh, uh, quick question. Any rest stops nearby?”

 

Figuring the police would spend at least forty minutes at the diner, McCree decided to indulge in a hot shower at the rest stop. After paying for his shower ticket at the terminal outside, he let himself relax a little in the locked bathroom. Not out of the woods yet, but getting there. He peeled his clothes off and made a mental note to look up a _lavandería_ after showering. With a squeak of the handle, water stubbornly gushed out of the corroded shower head with a hiss. Warm, not scalding, but it would have to do. Rivulets flowed down across the symmetrical keloids under his pectorals and over the yellowing bruises on his ribs. He bowed his head to let the water run over the knots of muscle in the back of his neck as he began to shampoo the grease out of his curls.

Once he had wrapped himself in a towel, he grabbed his phone from his bag and took a seat on the shower bench. He checked the time–twenty minutes past five. The phone indicated he had missed three calls since he had started showering, all from the same number. He did the math–almost 7pm in Kathmandu. What could be so urgent? The hell is that man up to? McCree threw his towel over his shoulders and hit the callback number.

“Yo!” A voice on the other line greeted after a few rings.

“Genji! Saw ya called me, what’s goin’ on?” McCree ran his fingers through his half-dried curls.

Genji, though masked, sounded cheerful, giddy, even. “Hello! I was trying to reach you. Zenyatta and I plan on journeying to the States, are you–”

“Hold up, line ain’t secure.”

“Ugh, is there no way to make it automatically secure?”

McCree shrugged, then realized there was no way Genji could have seen him do so. “One hot second.” He navigated to the vpn on his phone and turned it on. Of course, McCree had the phone registered to his pen name and the phone company would log any calls, but one could never be too careful. “I’ll send ya my coordinates, let’s just say it’s brisk.”

“It’s November, that hardly helps,” Genji sighed, feigning exasperation.

“And dry. Just wait for the coords.” McCree lowered the phone from his ear to check his location and send it to Genji in the encrypted messaging program they used. After some silence, Genji responded, “Oh! I’ve wanted to revisit there for some time.”

“Maybe I’ll send ya some green chili ‘n _biscochitos_ for Christmas. I’d make _sopapillas_ but can’t make any promises that they’d last the journey.”

Genji chuckled. His laugh still brought a smile to McCree’s face. It was good to hear him happy. McCree felt grateful that they had ended things on good terms before shit really hit the fan. “Zenyatta and I _did_ try to make them with that recipe you sent a while back, and with the altitude here, they actually puffed up and stayed that way!”

“Huh, well I’ll be. I might have to stop by sometime and try one.”

“Okay, see you in… 23 hours.” McCree snorted.

“So, anything else new? How’s Zen?”

“He’s getting antsy for our next trip, but we are delayed by a blizzard. Mondatta thinks he should conserve his energy since there’s less sunlight now.”

“Mon’s prolly right.”

“As he is. What about you?”

“I’m alright, had a weird morning.”

“Hm?”

“Fell asleep in a diner, stopped a robbery, left before the cops arr–“

“Wait, _what_?!”

“–ived, and I got free pie!”

“Stop, stop, back up, a robbery?!” Genji sounded like he had pressed his phone to his cheek. Didn’t he have comms built into his helmet back in the day?

“Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t the _most_ reckless thing we’ve–I mean, I’ve done.”

The cyborg sighed resignedly. “What happened?”

“Oh…. y’know.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I went to go clean up in the bathroom an’ when I got out all hell had broken loose.”

“You sound pleased with yourself.”

“Oh believe me, I ain’t. I wanted to have a nice breakfast in a comfy booth but other folks had better ideas about how to spend the morning, I guess.”

“You said you fell asleep in the diner. Weren’t you staying in a hotel last week?”

“Oh, yeah, but you know me–never liked stayin’ in one place too long.”

Genji sighed over the phone. “Still cruising on that UN pension?”

“Yeah, uh, about that–any idea when these things run out?”

“I was barely conscious when I signed my life away, McCree. Pensions were the last thing I was thinking about.” His tone sounded grave, which gave the _vaquero_ emotional whiplash when he perked up immediately. “But I’m sure someone at the UN’s looking out for us. I know a few ex-agents moved to other organizations.”

“Well, I’m not about to waltz into their headquarters in New York and demand to get the terms on my Overwatch pension. Too risky, even for me,” he chuckled uncomfortably, “In any case, I’ve got that side gig, remember?”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“What, you don’t like my writing?” McCree made the pout apparent in his voice.

Genji snorted. “It’s fine, it’s just… it’s very you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Hey! Is Zen there? Put me on speaker! What’s he think of my writing?”

“Okay, you’re on speaker.” Genji advised him.

“Zen?”

“Hello, McCree.” Zenyatta greeted.

“Be honest with me–whaddya think of my journalism?”

“Hmm.” Zenyatta pored over the question for a moment. “It’s…. enjoyable. Charming, humorous. Self-serving but with a comedic dramatic irony that perhaps only three people on earth can enjoy.”

“Well, there ya have it. Even your boyfriend thinks it’s good,” McCree gloated, leaning back against the wall of the bench.

From the sound of rustling, McCree guessed that Genji had taken the phone off-speaker. “He said only three people on Earth could enjoy your writing.”

“No, he was talkin’ about the dramatic irony!”

“Dearest, McCree is right,” Zenyatta said softly in the background.

“See?” McCree grinned smugly.

“I can hear the smirk on your face.”

“I miss you, too.”

“We’ll be visiting soon! When this storm blows over, we can finalize a date.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Be safe, okay?”

“You too, _conejito_.”

 

In the time that had passed since the call started, McCree’s curls had dried into a state of frizz. He grabbed the small comb out of his dopp kit and persevered through the stubborn knots in his hair. Right as he finished and put a bobby pin in his hair, his phone chimed. The notifications bar showed a new email from his editor.

 

_Hi Joel,_

_Just checking in. Your story about hydroponics in the desert got a lot of engagement! It really riled up a debate among our usual commenters–I’m sure your inbox is flooded right now. I know you’re on the road for the foreseeable future and that you’ve mentioned wanting to stay as a guest blogger, but we’d love to get more pieces from you. The team and I think you’d be great in the office. Flexible hours, great benefits, free coffee–AMAZING coffee–none of the stuff you’d get staying freelance. No pressure, just think about it and shoot me an email back whenever you’ve got a break in your travels._

_Best,_

_Rabia_

 

He thought about it–free coffee that was also "amazing?"–, then drafted his reply. Might as well get it over with.

 

_Hey Rabia,_

_Thanks so much for checking in. As I mentioned previously, my ability to stay mobile remains the primary reason that I do so well as a guest blogger. Everywhere in the world has something going on, and I can get there at the drop of a hat. Again, I appreciate the offer, but I feel more comfortable in my current position. I’d love to write more for the blog, but from on the road. Thank you for understanding, I look forward to hearing from you soon._

_Thanks,_

_Joel_

 

Once he finished reading the draft aloud to himself a few times, McCree hit send. He shuddered at the thought of himself confined to deskwork. That had made the Blackwatch suspension nigh unbearable. All he needed now was to find a place to (safely) catch some shuteye.

**Author's Note:**

> hey!!!!! long time no see. im about to graduate from college and start working in th games industry so im just putting this out here bc i love.....mccree........... m'jito querido cielito..........
> 
> also i'm in the genyatta zine so i'll be putting out that piece in a bit! ;]
> 
> feel free to hit me up on twitter @autolikescake or on tumblr @auttoton thanks gang


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